


A Thousand Paper Cranes

by gmariam



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 01:15:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4502151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gmariam/pseuds/gmariam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A chance find on Tosh's desk leads Ianto on a journey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Thousand Paper Cranes

A Thousand Paper Cranes

It was a small violet slip of paper, intricately folded into the delicate shape of a winged crane, that started it all. Ianto came across it on Toshiko's desk whilst cleaning, immediately enthralled by the simple yet intricate beauty that one piece of paper could create and convey. It seemed so perfectly like Tosh: beautiful, complicated, resilient. It was clearly well-loved, the paper dulled and frayed at the corners, and yet it was still striking, clean lines brimming with strength and beauty.

He felt his throat tighten as he held the violet crane in his hand, but swallowed back the tears as he made his way over to his own desk. Struck with a strong desire to know more, he pulled up a website on origami and found the instructions for how to make his own paper crane. It required several steps, but he was easily able to follow the directions, folding a nearby green square into his own version of the purple bird.

It made him feel sad, and yet he smiled at his accomplishment. Very carefully, he placed the violet crane on top of his monitor, naming it Tosh. Next to it sat the green, and he named it Owen. He glanced at the paper birds and felt a tiny spark of support, as if they knew exactly who they were and why they were there. Maybe they did; stranger things had happened at Torchwood. Running a finger over each with a silent word to his lost colleagues, he returned to his work, still mourning his friends, but comforted now by the memories resting upon his desk for him to see and touch each day.

* * *

It was after they returned from Switzerland that Ianto realized that he wasn't coping well. Hearing their voices in the tunnel deep underground had rattled him more than he wanted to admit. And Lisa…god, the alien had used Lisa against him as well. Staring at his computer as he tried to summarize his experience for the official report, Ianto found the screen becoming blurry, his eyes watering. He glanced up and saw the cranes, reached out to run his finger across them, and felt that same measure of peace he felt each time he touched one of the paper birds.

Acting on impulse, he pulled up the directions he had bookmarked and set about creating a third paper crane. He named it Lisa in the silent depths of his mind and set it with Tosh and Owen. Then he read everything he could about paper cranes, and everything began to make sense. Perhaps he could cope after all.

* * *

He found a small bookshop on the bay and bought reams of square paper, each one a different color and shade, some with bold patterns, others with whimsical ones, and still others with beautiful flower prints.

Though he rarely worked in the tourist office now, he made sure to have a stash of square sheets there, and he would sit and fold and silently hope that no one came in and asked him what he was doing, where the nearest loo was, or what time the castle opened.

On most days, he made at least one bird while he brewed the first cup of morning coffee for himself and Jack. He had a large pile of colored paper in the archives as well, and whenever he had time to catch up on filing, he made sure to take a break and fold one or two more paper cranes. It was relaxing, almost therapeutic.

He brought several baskets from home, old breadbaskets he never used, and kept them around the Hub. They collected the paper birds in the office, by his desk, near the coffee machine, and in the archives. Each bird had a name. He started with those closest to him—Tosh and Owen and Lisa—and then branched out. First to his family, starting with his father, and then other family and friends he'd lost over the years. After that came all the lives he'd seen crushed before their time at Torchwood Three, from Suzie Costello to Jasmine Pierce, John Ellis to Beth Halloran and more, including every resident of Flat Holm.

He printed a list of all the men and women who had died at Canary Wharf. It was overwhelming at first, the thought of creating one crane for each life lost that terrible day. But as he continued, he grew more and more determined. The list became his guide, the project his penance for surviving, the completed birds a memorial for those who had suffered. Each crane had a name; some he had known, some he'd never met, some he'd loved, and some he had hated.

* * *

One quiet night Jack sat down next to him and began folding his own paper cranes. He named his as well—Franklin, Angelo, Estelle, Greg, Lucia, Alex, and more. Torchwood operatives killed in the line of duty, his family, other lovers. Ianto gave Jack his own basket, knowing that one day Jack's cranes would outnumber his by the thousands. It was a sobering thought; even worse the knowledge that one day there would be a crane with Ianto's name on it.

They held one another close that night; Ianto did not make any cranes for a week.

* * *

Ianto refused to fold a crane when Jack fell into a coma. He refused to make one when Jack went with the Doctor. Instead, he began to gather them together. He tied them to red ribbons—red had been Tosh's favorite color—and soon had hundreds of cranes, ready to fly. He debated what to do with them; he was almost there, almost to one thousand.

Should he hang them in the Hub? His flat? Should he take them to Canary Wharf, since over 800 of them were dedicated to those lost at Torchwood One? Should he place them on Tosh's grave, because her violet crane had started him on this journey? He would not let them go unseen and unloved. He had poured his grief into each and every one, and it only seemed right to share both his sadness and his success.

As he contemplated how to honor the crane's named dead, he finished his last set of one hundred with the name of Christina, who had passed away at Providence Park, free of the nightmarish memories of the Night Travelers at last.

* * *

In the end he went up to the roof of his flat with Jack one night. He had twenty-five strings of forty, a thousand paper cranes dedicated to a thousand lives lost forever. Together he and Jack draped them along the roof, close to the sky and able to blow in the wind as if they could truly fly. They set down a blanket and opened a bottle of wine and toasted the dead under the stars.

It was early September. It had been almost eight months since Tosh and Owen had died, over two years since Canary Wharf, and even more since he'd lost his father. Yet each loss still resonated within him, leaving a hollow space where they had once lived and breathed as a part of his life, a part of his heart. The cranes blowing around him had helped him heal in many ways, though in other ways he knew he would always be slightly broken, that much more empty for having lost so many.

The cranes reminded him of his loss, of the people he loved, and of the job he did to protect those who survived. He lay down on the blanket, Jack beside him, and together they shared memories long into the night, celebrating as many cranes as they could, holding hands and watching the birds flutter in the gentle breeze against the night sky. Ianto made his wish, and wondered at his slightly superstitious and overly romantic nature.

It was as they were folding the blanket and walking inside, still holding hands, that one crane broke free of the red ribbon and flew off into the darkness below. Ianto watched it fall, torn between indignant annoyance and unexpected, heartbreaking loss. Jack wrapped his arms around him, as if sensing the precarious line Ianto walked between completely losing it, or accepting the crane's fate.

"Nine hundred and ninety-nine," Ianto whispered, his voice cracking. "All that effort, and we're still one short." His wish would not come true.

Jack kissed his neck, nuzzled his chin against warm skin. "You can make another one. We can come back up in the morning and add it to the rest, make sure they're all here."

Ianto turned and kissed him, relieved beyond words that Jack implicitly understood and supported him. He took Jack's hand and together they made their way inside, nine hundred and ninety-nine cranes flapping around them as they left the paper birds to the sky. He would complete his thousand cranes in the morning and make his wish once more.

* * *

Ianto was not able to make his last crane and take it to the roof. An early morning alert sent them to the hospital to intercept an alien hitchhiker, and after that the world went to hell around them. It was three days later whilst sitting in a dark, dank warehouse that he finally found a scrap of paper, scribbled a name on it, and carefully folded it into the beloved crane.

Tucking it into his pocket, he followed Jack to Thames House.

* * *

It was a small red square of paper, intricately folded into the delicate shape of a winged crane, that ended it all. Jack had found it in the pocket of Ianto's waistcoat, once again enthralled by the simple yet intricate beauty that one piece of paper could create. It seemed so perfectly like Ianto that he was amazed he hadn't noticed it before: beautiful, complicated, resilient. It was clearly a new fold, not yet worn to the touch, still striking, clean lines brimming with strength and beauty.

He felt his throat tighten as he held the red crane in his hand, swallowing hard as he made his way across the roof. He found the red ribbon that was missing a crane, and reverently attached this last one to the string, stepping back to watch it wave in the wind.

He added another one for his grandson, green with blue stars. One thousand and one.

It made him feel sad, and broken, and empty. Running a finger over the fluttering ribbons with a silent word to his lost lover, he turned away, mourning the loss of the life he had briefly shared with such a remarkable man. It was over. There would be no coming back. A thousand paper cranes could never heal his heart, never release his guilt, never make it right.

He placed a third crane on his palm, black as death, and blew it gently into the night.

The name on the crane was his own.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure what to say, other than this was inspired by the papers cranes I started folding several months ago. It seemed fitting to write about them, and this was their story. I hope that you enjoyed it.


End file.
